


a seal upon your heart

by theinkwell33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Ficlet, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Art, M/M, Missing Scene, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Bastille, Protectiveness, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: They were all so confident.Even a demon wouldn’t stoop that low.But in this moment, Crowley decided he very much would.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 120
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	a seal upon your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Inspired by [this art](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the) by WhiteleyFoster.
> 
> I rarely write angst for this fandom, but that art is so good I just couldn't resist. 
> 
> Warning for brief descriptions of violence, but nothing too graphic. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

In hindsight, Crowley should’ve known he was being watched. It should’ve been obvious, really. Of all the times for an impromptu job performance evaluation, it had to be the exact moment he marched out of the Bastille with a newly freed, grateful angel blabbering on about the delicate art of crepes.

It wasn’t uncommon for Crowley to be surveilled in his line of work. Downstairs was always harping - are you earning your value, what is your projection of misdeeds for the next quarter-century, do a demon-stration, et cetera. They sent scouts up every once in a while to check that there was enough misery going on. 

And today was just...wrong place, wrong time.

_If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes. They send Hastur. Or Ligur. If you’re lucky._

Turns out, it was Crowley’s lucky day.

He was tied to a wooden chair in some Parisian basement (Why did they always go for basements? Why reinforce the stereotype?), slowly coming back to consciousness after a blow to the back of the head. His styled hair, which he’d worked so hard on before appearing in Aziraphale’s cell, had come loose - he felt strands of it poking around his eyes, and the end of his ponytail felt crunchy from something that might have been dried blood. It probably was, going from the throbbing pain in his skull.

“Do you know,” Hastur said, once Crowley was awake, “that it only takes one drop of holy water to kill one of us?”

There was the sound of something sizzling. Hot metal, maybe. Without his sunglasses, Crowley’s vision wasn’t as vivid; things blurred in and out of focus. He saw a red and orange glare, a flame, and a flash of something bright and silver. 

Crowley frowned. “You’re not going to use water on me, are you?”

Hastur laughed, a harsh, wet, coughing sound. “Even a demon wouldn’t stoop that low, Crawly. No. We’ve got something else planned for you, but don’t worry. It’s still going to hurt.”

“‘S Crowley,” he corrected automatically, and was promptly ignored.

“We decided you needed a reminder. What side you’re really on. We figured something nice and permanent would do the trick. Something small you’ll always have, a small drop that’ll ripple into every decision you make. It’s the little things, Crawly.”

“Never heard you get poetic before.”

“‘S that?” asked Hastur.

“Poetic? Like, poetry. Metaphors, all the rage these days.”

Another croaky laugh. The flames reared up again, and Haster prodded them with a little stick. “Dagon wrote that speech, not me. What’s a metaphor?” 

“Never mind. Tell Dagon good job, I guess.”

Hastur looked fully at him then, with those eyes like black pools of oil. “She doesn’t care what you think. What matters to all of us _most_ is your job. Which you are not doing.”

“Not true. Bastille, head-cutty machine, my doing.” It wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that.

“You rescued an angel, Crawly. A fireable offense. But, lucky for you, we think you’re still reformable.”

“Look, I didn’t rescue anyone, see-”

“-Do you know what we do to traitors?” 

There was a pause. The fire popped and a spray of embers flew out.

Crowley tried to maintain his bravado. “I can guess. Got to do with ducks, probably. Evil little maniacs.”

“You won’t have to guess. You’re about to find out,” Hastur said, lifting the silver thing from the flames. It was a brand, and it glowed like the red giants Crowley once molded with his bare hands. He could smell the noxious smoke from here. He could hear it hissing.

He tried to remain calm, cool. Casual. He’d handled pain before. He’d survived Falling, hadn’t he? He could get through this. Better him than Aziraphale. 

“If you do this again, we won’t be as understanding. We’ll be listening everywhere. In the walls, even in the trees,” Hastur declared, advancing with the brand held aloft. Crowley’s vision refocused again, and in the moment when it blurred, his attention fixed on the brand symbol, tunnelling to that one point. With a mark like that, the wound would always hurt, even after it had physically healed. They really weren’t messing around, it seemed. He sucked in a breath.

If he could just spin a story, get everyone off his trail… “Listen, this is just a huge misunderstanding, let me explain.”

“I don’t care about your explanations,” snapped Hastur. “Let’s get this ironed out right now: you do your job, you don’t get reprimanded. You save that angel again, you get anywhere _near_ it, and next time it won’t be just you getting a special visit. We’ll send someone to go find that ethereal cupcake and burn it to a crisp.”

Crowley could withstand burns. He could withstand fire, and curses, and anger. He’d been through one crucible already, and it would take more than bodily injury or aggression from Hastur to shake him up. But in this moment, though he had never fully realized it before, it became very clear to him that his one vulnerability, his one weakness was, in every possible way, _Aziraphale_. 

Downstairs could do anything to Crowley and he’d be fine, but the moment they dared threaten Aziraphale, something cracked inside him.

A fear, chilling and dark, bled through the fissure like ink in water. 

The world was a great and terrible place, made infinitely better by that fussy angel and his disregard for danger and his love of crepes and music and people. They both had been so _reckless_ , Crowley knew that now. That disregard for danger was something that, until now, Crowley had unwisely indulged. Losing Aziraphale would appear as but a ripple in the ocean of the universe, but to Crowley, it would be a tsunami.

Hastur could never have known then, that this night was the inciting incident. That this was the moment Crowley decided he needed protection; insurance. He had to keep the angel safe. And he now held a grudge against Hastur and the rest of Downstairs that perhaps, at the end of their days, only holy water would finally quench.

They were all was so confident. _Even a demon wouldn’t stoop that low_. But in this moment, as Hastur pressed the brand into his skin, Crowley decided he very much would.

He screamed at first, and then decided his silence would be better. He held his head high, fighting the urge to squirm in pain, right up until Hastur at last untied him and departed.

When he was alone, Crowley allowed himself to sag in the chair. He looked down at the angry welt on his skin, breathing hard. The brand would remind him which side he was on, that was certain. But it wasn’t the side Hastur was thinking of.

That night, and for three days after, Crowley had to hold ice against the left side of his chest to numb the livid new scar above his heart. And while he lay in bed, back at his flat, floating in a shallow tidepool of pain and plans, he knew this scar would do what it was intended to. 

It would absolutely serve as a reminder. Not to avoid the angel, but to protect him.

It took a hundred years of sleeping to mostly get over the panic, but he never let go of the grudge. By that time, the scar had faded to an aching white remnant puckering against his skin, and he was careful to wear the highest collar possible to avoid any prying eyes. He pulled gloves onto shaking hands and wrote his request in trembling letters, marveling at how little hesitation he had. He’d never thought himself to be the type to take up arms, yet here he was, asking for the big one.

When he finally felt ready to don a top hat and venture out into the teeming streets of London again, his first and only quest was, as ever, to find Aziraphale.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come say hi on [tumblr](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/)!


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